


both alike in dignity

by rathxritter



Series: dearbh-aithne chultarail is phearsanta, dualchas, brexit [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No SHIELD (Marvel), Brexit, Brexit: Bloomberg Speech, F/M, one night stands (ish)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-09-29 16:51:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20439317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathxritter/pseuds/rathxritter
Summary: Every story starts somewhere.January 2013. On the eve of Cameron’s Bloomberg speech, Jemma Simmons and Leopold Fitz meet at a party. The country is changing, cracks are appearing, and they want more from each other.





	1. 22 January 2013

**Author's Note:**

> This series is about FitzSimmons, but it's also about Brexit, the 2014 Scottish independence referendum, and cultural identity. The plan is to have four of these stories, we'll see...
> 
> Brexit isn't a thing that just happened, there's a lot behind the referendum and its result: I'm going to provide the most important information and try to reference things that happened before January 2013 that are somehow relevant. Feel free to ask questions.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

When he sees her, she's standing next to one of his colleagues and is laughing loudly. There's a glass of red wine in her hand and of course she's holding it the right way, towards the base and with her thumb, forefinger and middle finger, everyone in the room seems to do so, something that makes him feel self-conscious about the beer bottle Hunter put in his hands. Dark jeans and a glittering t-shirt that catches the light and reflects it at her every movement - she looks like a glimmering and radiant goddess as she attentively listens to what the woman in front of her is saying and nods. There's something about her that looks familiar but his memory isn't collaborating at all and it seems rather unlikely for them to have met before: he's pretty sure he'd remember it, so maybe he's seen her on television or on the front page of one of those tabloid newspapers he passes by every morning on his way to work.

Hunter tells him something about Bobbi, but the words are distant and fail to reach him. The only comprehensible words are late and show up, the rest is an incoherent mumble and the next thing he knows is that Hunter pats him on his back and leaves him alone in a room full of strangers. Parties like this are renowned, it's the kind of parties that start with a couple of close friends and then grow out of proportions: people filling the flat and scarcely having the space to breathe. Not strangers, acquaintances, they all seem to know each other or to somehow share a past: they've been to school together, they've played polo together and call each other with the most ridiculous nicknames - boarding school tradition, their reputation precedes them. The best and the brightest, a self declared description, there's plenty of people who'd call them rich, spoiled and rotten, but in this battle of reason they're the ones who come out winning and any remark made against them is brushed off as envy. Some of them are sick to death of poor people. Some of them are somehow related to the Royal Family and have blue blood in their veins. Future politicians, future heads on the UN, ambassadors: they're part of an elite and know it all too well. However, it is only fair to admit that some of them if not all of them are decent folks whose company he enjoys and very much so - coffee breaks and luncheons, trivial conversations that come as a welcomed distraction from work.

"Fitz!" Someone calls him, distracting him from his thoughts and catching him like a deer in the headlights. "Just the man we need."

His colleague name escapes him, just another one of those people he sometimes meets in the corridor at work, and he hopes that it won't be needed. A vague memory of something related to classics, Shakespeare or opera, or maybe she's the one who likes theatre and Verdi and he's just making a mess of it.

"Hi," he replies, making his way through the crowd, occasionally rising his hand at people so as to greet them. "How do you do?"

"How many people in the Conservative party voted in favour of a referendum?" His colleague asks, completely ignoring his question.

"One hundred and eleven. Why?"

"Nothing, we couldn't agree, that's all." The woman in the glittering t-shirt says. "I'm Jemma, by the way."

"Fitz. It's a pleasure to meet you." He stretches out her hand and she takes it, a firm and solid handshake.

"The pleasure is all mine."

"Jemma's old money," says Ophelia or Aida or whatever her names is matter-of-factly. "She carries the patina of old money and good breading."

It's a remark he doesn't know what to do with for a variety of reasons, the first one being that it isn't any of his business. It seems harsh to go on talking about people's society status and income and it's useless to use privilege as an excuse to make oneself distinct - everyone around them has money, it would be easier to say that they do not.

"My parents are old money," replies Jemma coldly.

"That's exactly what rich people say," jokes Fitz and cracks a sheepish smile. It seems called for and he's humouring his colleague rather than Jemma. Jemma bites her tongue, silent and mutual accomplices in this awkward situation.

"Well," says Jemma and takes another sip of wine. "If you must know, my father's got a title which officially makes me a Lady. I outrank half the people in this room."

Fitz raises his beer bottle, a silent toast that Jemma copies. To old money, he wants to say, to all those parasites in chief. Gentlemen, imbibe! For isn't this what they all say?

"You know that she was flirting with you?" Jemma blurts out after a moment of silence as they watch his colleague walk away.

"She wasn't!"

"Oh, Fitz! Do tell us all about the number of votes, she seemed ready to jump your bones."

Fitz coughs, quickly placing his bottle on one of the shelves so as to avoid spilling its content on the wooden floor. Quite an accurate portrayal, he gives her that, but the content of it completely untrue and farfetched - they work together, ish, and they're the only people at this party with a low income and a complete lack of connections. It's a simple and easy matter, it would be quick to explain it away.

"Oh, Fitz! You simply must. You must!" Jemma pauses and looks at him. "Please don't die on me. Listen, we could have easily googled that stuff. I think you should run after her."

"Maybe I don't want to."

"Ah, there you are breaking hearts. So, Fitz, what do you do in life?"

"I write speeches for the Labour party, but I'm about to start working for the Scottish Parliament."

"Back to Edinburgh then?"

"Eventually, yes. What about you?"

"Oh, you know, I do all those things people with money do: shop at Waitrose, go on holiday. Fitz, I'm humouring you."

"Yeah, I got that."

"I'm currently getting another PhD."

"Another?"

"The second one and the last one. I think I know what I want to do in life."

"And what is that?"

"I want to be tired at the end of the day, in a good way. I want to do something that matters, something inspiring, something that may or not influence people. I want to be able to say that I did my bit, tried my best, that I've achieved something."

He looks at her flabbergasted with his mouth half opened, no doubt looking like an idiot. That's it, he wants to tell her, that's the reason he does what he does, the reason behind half of his life choices. It feels good to be understood by a stranger, so thoroughly and completely.

Raw and vulnerable, there aren't enough words in the English language to use so as to string together in a coherent reply. Instead, he says, "That sounds lovely. Good luck with that."

"You know, you don't strike me as someone who'd be here," says Jemma, drastically changing the subject.

"You mean I'm not posh enough?"

"You're not, but that's not the point and hardly matters. You don't roll your R-s."

What's up with all the people taking the liberty to comment on his accent? He doesn't go around telling everyone else that they sound like one of those CDs they put in dictionaries, allowing people to listen to RP pronunciation. What do they want to hear? That his father made him spent afternoons reading the dictionary so as to teach him the perfect pronunciation of words? That he learned reading IPA before he learned to properly read English? Prejudice and hatred, that's why he sounds like he does; It's none of their business.

"Christ," he sighs. "You don't sound like you're from Sheffield, so what's up with that."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"Maybe not. But I've had someone ask me if I'm actually Scottish because, and I'm quoting them verbatim, my English is pretty good. Whatever that's supposed to mean."

There seems to be an abysmal knowledge of history and any reply, as it always seems to happen, comes to him now - fashionably late, when the whole incident no longer matters. Thalla gu taigh na galla..  Toll-tòine. At least he never spent his evenings trashing restaurants: unlike them. Unlike their current Prime Minister.

"I'm sorry, Jemma. I'm here with a friend and I think that he's sort of acquainted with Milton. They went to school together or something. No, wait, I think their father served together. Anyway, Hunter's here because he hopes to see Bobbi, his ex-wife? Though she leaves England tomorrow morning so who knows."

"Hunter as in Lance Hunter?"

"Yeah, that Hunter. Why?"

"I'm a friend of Bobbi's, I've met him once or twice. Didn't know you two were friends."

"Are you going to say how unlikely that is? Because we've been mates for years. Long before London. We actually went to uni together."

"Why do you have to be so defensive all the time? I think it's great that you're mates, I just wanted to say that all this time and we never met! You have no ideas how many times Bobbi dragged me out for dinner with them because, and I quote, she couldn't possibly spend an entire evening alone with Hunter."

Fitz laughs, it's a nasal sound that starts with a snort. That sounds like Bobbi alright, and it's impossible to deny that she and Hunter have the oddest and most extraordinary of relationships. One moment he's calling her a hell beast and the other he spills poetry about what an amazing person she is and how much he loves her. Bobbi is no different either. Deep care, despite their attempts not to show their feelings, and love. And lust, sometimes walls really are too thin.

"Why are you here?"

"I'm friends with Milton, sort of. He insisted, I had to come because he still had to give me my Christmas present." She stops and looks at the watch on her wrist. "Alright, I think I'm going home now. It's been a long day."

"Oh." Unfamiliar disappointment starts to take over, he's never felt like this before. There's nothing so maybe he did bore her and she's tired of him, but why leave when she can just as easily tell him? Is this some whole new level of politeness that posh people have come up with, nicety that hides condescending ways. He should have found something clever to say, something to impress her, something that maybe would make her feel the same way as him: wishing for the night never to end, start a friendship. The conversation was easy albeit bumpy, but the excitement and elation that come from it are unmatched and unprecedented. It's all new. It's different. Jumping across social boundaries and never once getting bored.

"Maybe you could come back to mine."

Her voice is matter-of-factly, a simple and well articulated statement. Casual. If he had water in his mouth, he'd probably spit it out in surprise and amazement. He's pretty sure that she's making fun of him or that, influenced by his own eagerness and wishful thinking, he misheard her completely, but then she goes on and says, "For a drink. I could offer you a drink and we could continue our conversation in private. It's okay if you say no, I can give you my phone number and we'll just call it a day. Forget about it."

"No. No, I'd like to. I'd love to."

"Do you have to tell Hunter?"

Fitz shakes his head. "No, I don't think so. He's going to be alright and we came here with the Tube so... I'm boring you."

"You're not, not at all! I live just around the corner, it won't be long."

He follows her. She picks up her coat from one of the chairs and he takes his jacket from the coat hanger next to the door. There's still a sense of uncertainty mixing with disbelief, that this is actually happening, that the person whom he feels quite a lot of interest in actually feels the same way. He looks at her picking up an old paper box and then they walk away, the door closing behind them, muffling the voices and the music inside Milton's flat.

"Do you think that it will actually snow?" he asks so as to break the silence. It's stupid when people discuss the weather, there always seems to be more that they want to say and perhaps this is the case too. But what to say when the whole future is uncertain?

"I don't know, maybe. It would be both nice and a mess." She stops, turning her head around so as to look at him. "As long as it doesn't keep me away from the British Library, I'm alright. Listen, Fitz, if you want to go home for whatever reason... I can walk you to the nearest Tube station, it's not a problem. You don't owe me anything and I really don't need you to walk me home. We can call it a day."

"That's not... That's not why I mentioned the snow, Jemma."

"Alright, if you say so."

They walk under clouded sky, in empty street illuminated by the dim light cast by the streetlamps. It's fancy, every house screams expensive and certainly looks like it - the whole neighbourhood, really, with its white terraced houses looks like something out of a BBC drama, the ones that air around Christmas, and he's pretty sure that the rent in Kensington is six times the one he pays per month. Envy, although not really, more like bewilderment: these people have money, they don't just make ends meet - it must be quite the feeling. Past the Natural History Museum into Queen's Gate Gardens and then straight on into Cromwell Gardens, then left.

"Here we are."

"Do you want me to help?" asks Fitz, stretching his hands out so as to take the box from her.

"Thank you."

The keys tingle in her hands as she takes them out of her pockets, looking for the right one. The sheep shaped key holder dangles at every movement, until Jemma turns the doorknob and opens the old, black door.

"Shoes off?"

"Yes, please. You can leave them next to mine."

She switches the light on and kicks her boots away, ungallantly dismissing them into a corner, next to a half-broken umbrella and some newspapers. Into the living room: it's cosy and airy, much bigger than the one he shares with Hunter. There's an entire wall covered with bookshelves and he has to resist the urge to go and read the titles. A loveseat and an armchair, a television placed on a small table, some dictionaries opened on the table and her laptop still open, charging and in precarious equilibrium on the edge of an armrest. Not IKEA made, but it doesn't mirror Fitz's mental picture of posh people's living rooms - too warm and welcoming for it to be.

"Can I offer you a drink? Because that's why I asked you to come, I wasn't luring you."

"What are you going to serve me? Champagne?" He jokes. "And yes, I'd love a drink."

"Sure, let me just ring my butler. I was actually going to say a coke or wine, maybe even a beer. But if you want Champagne, I think I've got some somewhere... Christmas present from my father. You'd have to do without the flutes though, washing them is a pain in the ass."

"Coke is fine."

"Coke it is then."

He watches her walk into the kitchen and hears the sound of drawers and the fridge opening and closing. When she comes back, she's holding a tray with glasses filled with coke up to the rim, a bottle of gin, and some coasters on it.

"So, what's this all about?" asks Fitz, pointing at the box.

"Nothing of consequence, just Milton being Milton." She pauses. "Do sit down, please."

They take place on the sofa - his legs stretched out and their hands almost touching. She's sitting side-saddle with an arm resting on the backrest and looks at him for a moment, eyes lingering on him, before she takes a sip of the dark liquid in her glass.

"You know, Milton thinks himself to be quite hilarious."

"He's an arse."

"Yeah, most of the time. They're crisps, the thing inside the box."

"Crisps?" His voices oozes disbelief. "Why does he give you an entire box of chips for Christmas."

"Christmas? More like Christmases, birthdays, the list goes on. Do you know Boris Johnson?"

"I say, it's quite difficult not to."

"Right. So, when Boris Johnson was working for The Spectator, he wrote mocking and denigrating stories about the European Union. I'm afraid that his style and the trend he set only caught up: Funny and interesting compared to everyone else's dry style, but completely and utterly untrue. One of his articles was about prawn cocktail chips and how the EU wanted to ban them."

He remembers the story, vaguely: The whole affair about EU regulations and the fake stories based on a grain of truth. They had never banned the crisps, the UK government just failed to include a prawn cocktail when asked to send a list of flavours and sweeteners in current use in the EU. A mistake and a revised list.

"Johnson still likes to go on about the great war against the British prawn cocktail flavoured crisps, certain evidence of Brussels-gone-mad. Milton and I were seeing each other at the time, not 2002, but later, when he became mayor. I used to call him out for his lies, there were plenty of facts to prove them wrong, right?"

He nods. "Right."

"Anyway, Milton was annoyed by it. He used to say that I cared more about the prawn cocktail thing than him or us."

"Ouch."

"In hindsight it was actually true." She laughs. "So the chips. A reminder of our failed relationship or whatever you want to call it. An accusation, of sorts, though it's fine because I never have to buy crisps."

"Handy."

"It is, isn't it?"

They look at each other, things getting seriously all of a sudden. There seems to be a natural gravity, they seem trapped in a carpenter's vice. He feels her fingers on his skin, warm and gentle, and her head is slowly moving closer to him as his throat turns dry. He wants to kiss her, he really does, but the urgent need to impress her is stronger: to say something clever and be liked and appreciated.

"You know," he says, mentally kicking himself for ruining the moment. "It's a pity you didn't spend your time ranting about the fact that the anti-European sentiment actually has its roots in the Exchange Rate Mechanism. Imagine that."

Jemma laughs, genuinely, and it's the warmest sound he's ever heard, he could listen to it for hours.

"I think Milton doesn't have enough imagination to use that against me."

"He isn't that bright, is he?"

She shakes her head, another wave of laughter. "And I can assure you that he doesn't have a single original thought in his head. Or an opinion either, a nightmare really when you go out for dinner with friends. He agrees with everyone! But enough of Milton."

"Thank God, cause I don't know him that well to keep talking about him. And while I- umpf."

Her lips on his cheek and then on the corner of his mouth, lingering and soft. There's time to stop. There's time to say no. It's a question, a soft and unspoken one, actions speaking louder than words. More confidence and less hesitancy as he turns his head ever so slightly until her lips are pressed on his. A goodnight kiss of sorts, his hand moving under her shirt in exploration. A goodnight kiss, opened mouths with their tongues touching, moist and slippery muscle against moist and slippery muscle. Patiently and yielding, a soft moan at the back of her throat and her hands unbuckling his belt . they both mark the ultimate transformation and brings them back to reality.

"I don't usually do this," he blurts out, retrieving his hands. "Not in a while anyway."

His last relationship never reached its fulfillment for he was too busy commuting from London to Edinburgh to realize that he was detaching himself and pushing everyone else away. The unopened box of condom inside his bedside drawer, next to some biros, a notebook, and his passport are sufficient indication of such a reality. He hurt someone and was hurt in return and it's difficult, he wants to say, do this when you've been hurt? And Jemma is bloody brilliant and gorgeous and right in front of him. She's the one who kissed him first and somehow it seems a very important detail to keep in mind and treasure, a detail to explain things and somehow reassure him that this is wanted. It's lust and interest and desire to be friends - the most explosive mix. He feels as if they've known each other for years, as if time has always come to this.

She nods. "Do you want to do this? Because if you don't... If you changed your mind, then we'll call this a day and stop. I can drive you home if you want."

"No, no. I- I do want to do this."

Jemma smiles at him, the corners of her mouth slowly rising. It's a contagious smile, a bright one that seems to light up her whole face, and it's almost impossible to resist.

"Me too." She pauses. "Come and kiss me, you lemon."

And he's only too happy to oblige.


	2. 23 January 2013

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bloomberg Speech: [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ApcgQDKqXmE), [text](https://www.gov.uk/government/speeches/eu-speech-at-bloomberg). All quotes are taken directly from there[](https://www.gov.uk/government/speeches/eu-speech-at-bloomberg)  
Unbeta'd.

He wakes up in an unfamiliar room, with dim daylight filtering through the closed curtains and the outlines of the lampposts outside nothing but dark shadows. For a moment he feels completely disorientated as he lies there, under the warm covers, his head resting on a striped pillow and his mind fogged by sleep, until the memories of the previous night slowly resurface and start to settle: Milton's party, walking away with Jemma, the short lived conversation in her living room, the laughter and the sex - the two of them stumbling down the corridor, headed to her room, hungry mouths and hands that fumbled in exploration. They had already begun in the living room.

Beside him Jemma is slowly waking up. Curled in foetal position, she's facing him and blinks a couple of times before she looks at him, studying his face.

"Good morning," she whispers softly, the last syllable comes out with a loud yawn and her nose crinkles.

"Morning," he replies, his voice thick with sleep and his mouth filled with an unpleasant metallic taste.

"Slept well?"

"As a matter of fact, I did. The road outside is very quiet, wouldn't have thought." He pauses and stretches his legs, the whole mattress rocking because of his sudden movement. "Did I snore?"

"Oh yes, very loudly. You woke the whole neighbourhood-"

"You're making fun of me," he cuts her off.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to... It just seems like such an odd thing to worry about, what's done is done. Besides, I sleep like a rock, they could demolish the building next to mine and I wouldn't hear a thing." She pauses. "Gosh, did I snore?"

"No, but you did take up most of the bed."

He blushes. After having spent most of the time moving his body to the edge of the bed so as to leave her some space, Jemma had rolled back towards her side and he had repositioned himself more comfortably. The perfect arrangement at least until Jemma had all but curled her body against his, this close to holding him. A strange sense of intimacy and a dreamlike scenario: perhaps it's true, he thinks, that loneliness never matters until it finds a way to creep up on you while lying in an empty bed.

"I'm sorry."

"Why? I didn't say anything, did I?"

"It must have been rather uncomfortable."

"A little. A lot. But then you rolled back and after that I slept like a baby."

"Good."

She laughs and it seems impossible not to do so too. Tentatively Fitz removes his hand from under the covers to brush a strain of hair away from her forehead. The contact is brief, lingering, before he breaks it by removing his hand as quickly as he placed it there.

"Damn it, I need to use the loo," says Jemma. "And I don't want to move. Oh, bugger."

He watches her leave and disappear into the corridor. The light of her alarm clock blinks repeatedly, but the numbers are blurred and he's unable to properly distinguish them. Instead, he grabs his phone from the bedside table, rescuing it from its precarious equilibrium and the very real possibility of falling onto the floor and unlocks it. Late than imagined, but the bed is warm and cosy and he has no desire to get up and get ready for the day, no desire at all to go to work.

"It's snowing!" Jemma's voice coming from the bathroom is distant, almost an echo. "Not much, there shouldn't be any problems with public transport."

He ignores her, and goes through his notification. A message from Hunter sent at two o'clock in the morning, telling him that he went to Bobbi's and that they'll see each other the following evening for beer and a pizza, just as planned. A warning from the BBC about David Cameron's Bloomberg speech, during the Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition but without the support of the then Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg and the Liberal Democrats, scheduled to begin in less than ten minutes. Bugger, he thinks, he'd give anything to be at home now. He wants to watch it, see what they're all up to now, it's something that they've talked about a lot at work and now he's going to miss it. It's an all but irresistible impulse, two choices ahead of him: ignore it and think about it the whole day, or ask Jemma to turn on the telly so as not to miss it. If he asks her, what will she think of him?

She still hasn't come back and her steps are not to be heard. Fitz types her name into Google only to discover that there isn't much at all: two academic articles, a contribution to an unknown newspaper and an article on The Telegraph about her family. Maybe it's for the best, he thinks, would it count as an invasion of privacy? He puts down his phone again and pulls the covers to the side, getting up. The floor is cold under his feet and he remains there, motionless, looking outside the window - the first snowflakes and that eerie yellow light that is so typical of snowy weather.

"Are you staying for breakfast?" asks Jemma. "I'd like you to stay. Unless you're in a hurry, I get it, I wouldn't feel offended."

"No, there's time. Breakfast is fine as long as I'm not a nuisance."

"You really aren't. I hate breakfasts on my own, not that I'm asking you to stay to cure my loneliness. I just think it would be nice, I had a good time yesterday and-"

"No, no. I.. I'd like to spend more time with you," he cuts her off.

"Exactly that. Breakfast it is then."

He follows her into the kitchen and leans against the doorframe as he watches her turn on the kettle and take two Dunoon mugs from a cupboard - they don't match, one has sheep on it and is chipped and the other has cows.

"I've got Lady Grey, English Breakfast, some Fortnum and Mason's Jubilee Tea and-"

"English breakfast, please."

"Alright. What do you usually have for breakfast? I think I can make porridge."

He laughs and smiles at her, a wave of fondness washing over him. He doesn't know anything about her and feels like an idiot - porridge isn't that hard to make and it's not like she's offering him a ten course meal or something. Still, it's thoughtful and lovely.

"I know it doesn't- I'm not a good cook, Fitz, which excludes a lot of options. Or we could go out."

"Jemma, it's alright. To be honest, I eat anything. One time Hunter's niece came to stay with us for a couple of days and he bought I don't know how many types of cereals, we ate that stuff for months on end. What do you usually have for breakfast?"

"Some toast, butter and honey. I've got cake if you want, but I warn you that it's covered with chocolate so it may not be your thing."

"Sounds scrumptious." He pauses. "Jemma?"

"Yes?"

"May I turn on your television? Cameron's Bloomberg speech is going to start soon and I'd like to watch it."

"Sure, I don't mind, you can find the remotes on the coffee table."

"Thank you. Is there anything I could do to help you? Lay the table?"

"You can bring the cake, two plates and the cutlery with you. That cupboard and that drawer over there."

Back in the living room, he carefully puts away the paper box and Jemma's stuff and places the two plates and the cutlery on the light wooden surface of her table. Then, he turns on the television, zapping until he finds the news channel. David Cameron is already on stage, the microphone in front of him, behind him a light blue background and in dark blue letters the words England and Europe.

"I can't stand that guy," says Fitz.

"Oh, come on, he's not that bad. He has PR experience, like Tony Blair before him, and the Tories had an image problem. Cameron fixed that." replies Jemma as she walks in with the two cups of tea. "There you go, bon appétit."

"Thank you." He smiles.

Fitz looks at David Cameron. This is about the 2010 general election, the one that resulted in a hung parliament, the second since the Second World War, were no party was able to command a majority in the House of Commons. It is also about the coalition government of that same year, UKIP, and those 111 votes in favour of a referendum. It's about power and remaining in charge, masked as an interest in the EU and it future, they blame the people - but the people do not care about the European Union, of that Fitz is quite sure.

"This morning," says Cameron. "I want to talk about the future of Europe. But first, let us remember the past. 70 years ago, Europe was being torn apart by its second catastrophic conflict in a generation. A war which saw the streets of European cities strewn with rubble. The skies of London lit by flames night after night. And millions dead across the world in the battle for peace and liberty."

One big hyperbole and a metaphor to highlight the new unification of Europe, immediately followed by a metonym that legitimizes the Allied forces' attempts to defend themselves from the attack of the Berlin-Rome axis during World War Two. Classic rhetoric, it's been used ad nauseam and he always thought that it provides a picture of history that is stagnant: justification on all parts, axis against allied forces in every day speeches, in criticism, in politics and it balances fear and a reminder of victory.

"As we remember their sacrifice, so we should also remember how the shift in Europe from war to sustained peace came about. It did not happen like a change in the weather. It happened because of determined work over generations." Cameron goes on.

The topos of history, it's blatantly there. It's a direct reprise of one Churchill's best speeches, the one he gave in May 1940. Funny, Fitz thinks, because he cannot stand Churchill either or at least the picture that of him that survived: a tube-travelling, minority-adoring genius. The greatest Briton that has ever lived. He built internment camps are built all over the country: German and Italians, Jews and not. Collar them all! The focus is shifting on the collective memories and the definition of a nation that is open to Europe despite the many problems and the multiple challenges.

Fitz scoffs and takes a bite of cake, savouring it and letting the chocolate melt in his mouth.

"But today the main, over-riding purpose of the European Union is different: not to win peace, but to secure prosperity. The challenges come not from within this continent but outside it. From the surging economies in the East and South. Of course a growing world economy benefits us all, but we should be in no doubt that a new global race of nations is underway today. A race for the wealth and jobs of the future. The map of global influence is changing before our eyes."

"Oops," whispers Fitz. "There it is."

It's a fight for prosperity and the top of the ladder. It's about the financial threat and it's there oozing through Cameron's speech and his rhetoric, a subtle hint to migration, the ultimate threat that undermines what's been built in the past fifty years. It may not be much, but this isn't an isolated incident, those are words that draw people in, and will no doubt be used to support arguments. Those are words that potentially add to that slow drip of hate and fear, nothing to counter it. It's an us versus them, and the latter category includes everyone who isn't British.

"We have the character of an island nation - independent, forthright, passionate in defence of our sovereignty. We can no more change this British sensibility than we can drain the English Channel."

It's worse than expected, Fitz feels the urge to rewatch it all and takes notes. It's elating and provokes misery at the same time. he's unable to look away.

"We have the character of an island nation - independent, forthright, passionate in defence of our sovereignty. We can no more change this British sensibility than we can drain the English Channel."

To hear Cameron discuss insularity as an unchanging situation is embarrassing to say the least. It relies on intertextuality to get the message through and he could easily quote at least three Shakespearean passages that describe the situation just as eloquently. Superiority and the envy of other countries, Britain's destiny all along.

The EU is described as problematic and Fitz would like to say out loud that he thinks that the EU is the greatest invention there's ever been. Five principles to be met and addressed in the near future, all of them are linked to governance, economy and British identity: competitiveness, more autonomy for national governments, democratic accountability and fairness. It's a classic and Fitz doesn't care whether or not it is a conscious rhetorical figure or if it's just copying other people's speeches. It would, without a doubt, make a good corpora for Cameron does it, Brown did it, Thatcher did it, and Wilson and Gaitskell too. Fitz would like to give the Prime Minister the benefit of the doubt, though the whole speech seems somehow contradictory.

British exceptionalism comes next along with the two types of scepticism: hard scepticism, from the Conservative party and UKIP, with its principled opposition to the project of European integration as the EU embodies it; and soft scepticism, with is opposition to the EU's planned trajectory based on the future extension of competencies. That familiar way to rely or wake a sense of belonging to the superior British Nation, a nation bound to its tradition as empire. It's Britain first and Europe second, because Britain is not part of it, Britain is a neighbour with whom they're bound by special relationships. Separate entities, Britain is the island and if the EU falls, British people will drift towards the exit.

"Urgently, essential, quickly, carefully," he says to Jemma. "He's practically urging them to act! It's the topos of threat because the EU might fall and then- what?"

"You really like this, don't you?" asks Jemma. "It's obvious, you find it fascinating, don't you?"

"You know that I do this for work, right?"

"I know, but it isn't just work, is it? It goes beyond that. You could watch this any time of the day, but you're doing this now. That gave you away."

He freezes, afraid that harsh words will follow. But they don't, Jemma merely drinks her tea and looks at the television.

"Did you know that historically the conservative party has been generally pro-Europe from the 60s to the 90s? It used to be the Labour party to have a problematic relationship with Europe. In 1975 Harold Wilson-"

"The Labour Prime Minister?"

"Yes, that Harold Wilson. He held a referendum on membership of the common market to heal the division of his party. Some of them thought that a common market would interfere with their socialist planning."

"And Corbin comes from that tradition?"

"He does. Being a member of the common market was seen as a way to modernize British economy, open it to competition." He stops. "So back in the 60s the reason for joining actually was economic rather than political. Which, I guess, may explain why the speech is framed like that."

"So what changed?" asks Jemma, genuinely interested.

"In 1988, roughly, Jacques Delors, former socialist PM of France and head of the European committee, came to the trade union congress in the UK and told the Labour party that the European Union was also about protecting workers' rights, social conditions and making good for ordinary people. A speech that at the time had been a challenge to Thatcher's obstructionism."

"And the Labour party became pro-Europe."

"And the Labour party became pro-Europe," he repeats. "At least, that's the moment that is generally considered to mark the beginning of Labour being pro-European community."

"I did not know that, what an interesting thing to learn."

"Are you making fun of me again?"

"No! Gosh, Fitz, I'm being serious. It really is interesting. You care a lot, don't you? I like that. You can be rather quiet, but you seem buzzing and excited." She pauses and smiles, stretching out her hand to take his. "You look like you just swallowed a box of fireworks."

They both go silent as Cameron goes on and says, "It is to the British Parliament that I must account on the EU budget negotiations, or on the safeguarding of our place in the single market. Those are the Parliaments which instill proper respect - even fear - into national leaders. We need to recognise that in the way the EU does business."

A discourse on European values, allusions to the Copenhagen Declaration of 1973. The Prime Minister highlights a Union based on strong nations and parliaments, basing it on national responsibility. But it's also a dialect relationships between Britain and the European Union whose negative outcome is merely based on the fallacious Aristotelian topos of the aftermath - if Britain leaves the EU, the latter will suffer. No mentions of possible negative outcomes for Britain, Fitz could list at least five off the top of his head.

"So we will have time for a proper, reasoned debate. At the end of that debate you, the British people, will decide."

"Christ." Fitz sighs. "He's going to make a gamble and for what? To silence some annoying people in his own political party? More power so as not to have another hung parliament?"

The Prime Minister is a clown, a bloody clown. Fitz knows how this is going to end: badly, nothing good may come out of it. Let's say that the population is divided into forty and forty, there's going to be a war to secure the other twenty percent to either of those sides. It's an irresponsible move: people like Johnson and garage just need to find someone to do the clever bits while they do the dirty work. They won't stop. They won't be civil, why should they when they're this close to get what they want? 

"Are you alright?" asks Jemma. "Only, you're terribly quiet. Listen, I'm sure it's nothing. Cameron isn't an idiot, and surely he's not that irresponsible. Have some faith. Nothing will happen."

A referendum will happen. There's going to be another general election in less than two years and power is at stake. It's appealing, people, he's sure, will be tricked and there will be unimaginable consequences on a global scale. The Bloomberg speech oscillates between two different extremes - maximum distance to the EU and some proximity to its economic policies - and follows the same structure as many other speeches given by prominent EU politicians, but it leaves enough space for doubt and for playing dirty. It won't end well.

"Fitz, the general election is two years from now. He could change his mind, it could not happen, it could be a purely advisory referendum."

"Yeah, maybe." Fitz shrugs. "I'm sorry, I won't be of much company this morning."

Now it's her turn to shrug. She looks away and pours milk into her mug, stirring slowly.

"Want some?"

"No, thank you."

They spend the rest of their time together in complete silence, the only noise are the occasional cars speeding down the road.

Later, as they stand in the street, the traffic passing by and snowflakes falling all around them, on the ground and almost immediately melting away, he looks at her and gulps. There must be something to say, he thinks, something that won't sound too apologetic, something that will allow him to skip over the inanities and finally reach for the larger thought. He should have asked her a long time ago, yesterday or before breakfast, for breakfast itself brought doom and gloom and monopolized his thoughts.

"Once more, I'd like to say that I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For this morning. You wouldn't be the first person to accuse me of caring more about politics than the people sitting in front of me."

For a moment his mind wanders back. All he cares about is work, harsh and angry words and a door slamming as he sat in front of his computer with his heart beating faster and faster.

"I don't mind, really. And it seems rather unfair of you to take the blame, I didn't try to make conversation. I'm afraid it takes me a while to become a sociable and functional human being. If this is about David Cameron's speech than I want you to know that it didn't bother me, I'd have told you if it did."

"Alright then."

He stops, his heart hammering in his chest. It's odd too feels so exposed now instead of yesterday although it takes less courage to admit to wanting sex than it does to make plans for the immediate future. It was lovely, Jemma is lovely and he wants them to be friends more than anything - as absurd as it sounds, it feels right. They had fun, which is more than fine, but there's plenty of other possibilities and he'd very much like to explore them.

"You know, Fitz, I think that you overthink the-"

"Dinner." He cuts her off.

"What?"

"Me and you, maybe we could go out and eat somewhere nice."

"Oh."

"Not today or tomorrow, just... sometime."

"Yes, I'd love that." She pauses and looks at him. "Let's not wait until you're in Edinburgh though, the commute would be a bit tricky."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- "Almost all of the other member countries see the EU in emotional terms as an important part of their identity and often, also, as an underpinning of their security and prosperity. Britain is different: it considers the EU on an essentially pragmatic and transactional basis. If membership seems to be desirable because it boosts trade and employment, fosters the success of British companies and protects the interests of the financial industry in the City of London, then Britons will support it.” Peet (2016).  
\- "Apparently, British politicians are hard wired to measure their relationship with the European institutions in units of five. This might be a conscious rhetorical figure [...], or this is a nice instance of intertextuality. Consciously or unconsciously, speech writer C copies speech writer B, who copies speech writer A." _The UK Challenge to Europeanization: The Persistence of British Euroscepticism_ by Karine Tournier-Sol  
\- Margaret Thatcher replied to Delores' speech in Bruges saying that she doesn't imagine Britain should be an isolated power on the edge of a continent, it should be involved in Europe, but she didn't want increasing political integration. She said, famously, "We have not successfully rolled back the frontiers of the state in Britain, only to see them re-imposed at a European level" which was seen as quite antagonistic against membership of European community. Geoffrey Howe (Foreign Secretary) said that he was being sent to Brussels to negotiate one thing, but Thatcher had said something quite antagonistic that made his life difficult.  
\- UKIP: UK Independence Party.  
\- I love thinking about 2013-2016 because those were very wild years. Every conversation was like "ok BUT DO YOU THINK BREXIT IS GOING TO HAPPEN??" and the reply was always "NOOO, of course NOT! We're not THAT dumb!!" and then... yeah...

**Author's Note:**

> \- In the early nineties Britain pegged its currency to the Deutsche Mark because the latter was seen as a guarantee of low inflation: it didn't end well. This is called the ERM and if you ask most people what the ERM is, it probably doesn't mean very much but it is very important for the anti-European sentiment because form that point on the Conservative party grew increasingly skeptical of membership of the EU.  
\- The Crisps thing is real. In 2002 Johnson wrote "Some of my most joyous hours have been spent in a state of semi-incoherence, composing foam-flecked hymns of hate to the latest Euro-infamy: the ban on the prawn cocktail flavour crisp (...)."  
\- In 2011 there was a rebellion by British conservatives and 111 conservative MPs voted for a referendum on membership of the EU. There's about 650 MPs in parliament, but 111 is quite a large number so the PM had to do something.


End file.
